HBO was created in 1972 to provide people with their own post office, a "Home Box Office," if you will, which you won't, but it was.

Unfortunately, this did not work out, as it was clearly embarrassing and stupid, and only served to provide for the distribution of porn (go on, click on it. You know you want to).

E-mail being only a few years away, this was obviously going to be redundant soon.

So it was that unto the acronym came a new meaning: "Holy Benedictine Orders," a cult dedicated to purchase with promise of delivery. Then someone, probably you, pointed out that if you had the O stand for "orgasm," you could link to "orgasm without writing it in the search bar. To which the Order spake, nay, verily, it be not your place to go look at orgasm on Uncyclopedia. Go forth, yea, but do not multiply, thou pale and pimply virgin.

Which, really, revealed far too much about the creator's mind. But the Hard Banging Organization, dedicated though it was to continual, rough sex with your mom and your sister on the same night, did provide a new cable TV station with its charter, provided that they put on one show with "sex" in the title.

The rest on the charter was a reprint from the chapter in "Fanny Hill" where Fanny is going down on that whore, and Mr. McTam is beating them, trying to get them apart, and …

The first series the new network carried was called "Sex and the City." It was cancelled after four episodes. It was replaced with David Chase's Mafia epic "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Vol. II: Adrian's Revenge." This series gained critical acclaim and went on to win the Super Bowl by mistake. A few days after that, it was cancelled for being, in the words of Chase, "too sexy." However, a spinoff, The Sopranos, did premiere the next season.

At the same time, the Hard Banging Organization realized that they were spending money on a TV series, rather than on whores, jezebels and strippers. However, the cable network was now out of their control, and because they had adopted their organizational system from the U.S. Government (Oooo! Snap! Pwned! etc. etc. back to work), all they were able to do about it was broadcast a masked man, who spoke for four minutes about why everyone should cease and desist watching and go fuck him. In so doing, he revealed his location (uttering the immortal words: "Come give me a blowjob, bitches! I'm waitin' right here at two up and two fuckin' down, 12 Arnold Grove!") and faced the wrath of George Harrison and the assembled might of the Pimply Hyperboles.

That's an in-joke, y'know.

The International Council of David Affairs intervened at this point, insisting that in the interest of David rights, a new show be added to the HBO network lineup, created by a David. Member #48621738924832743728094 was agreed upon, because he was drunk so often that the network figured he'd never get the show out in time and they wouldn't have to air it.

But the bastard turned in his scripts, and they had to air shit. Not to say that the cocksuckin' show was unsuccessful (though it was, kind of), but it fucked with their little heads so much they had to blow him to get something to breathe. I think it was about cowboys or something. Much of the crew claimed to have worked on TV series, but lied, for obvious reasons.

The network came back to form with Six Feet Under There! Look! For the love of God pleaseoplease just motherfuckin' LOOK!, which was called pretentious by some and gay by others, but was almost as successful as The Sopranos. It dealt with the trials and tribulations of a ghost in a funeral home, its body buried in the foundations, constantly bothered by the other, temporary spooks which came and went with the corpses, while it was trapped, unable to find peace. The wacky fun went on and on for years, with recurring appearances by Satan as himself and featuring notable drag appearances by God as Lauren Ambrose. The last episode offered hope for the protagonist -- the funeral home was scheduled for demolition -- but a last-minute intervention by a plucky little girl, her dog, her gay friend, the pederastic local historian Lazlo Inglish and a cigarette lobby saved the home and doomed the ghost to four hundred years of zoning-board-approved hell. To this day, the network has broadcast intermittent flashes of the ghost's trapped, anguished existence, which are generally regarded as unparalleled masterpieces of comedic acting by series star Mr. T.

Meanwhile, this dumbass show about Jesus came on, called Jesus from Bethlehem, about a surfer who met a mysterious Jesus on the beach, who offered to help him win the local surfing competition, but then the surfer got eaten by the shark from Jaws, and Jesus just talked about fucking vagina dentata and Freudian psychoshit for the rest of the episode and where the hell's the rest of my Deadwood?

The network wishes to ask you not to add any erectile dysfunction jokes at the expense of Deadwood. They ain't funny.

Magazines like The New Yorker love HBO to this day. Have you noticed that? It's kinda pathetic. They'll even make excuses for it when it fucks up, in clear breach of their normal technique of jumping on anyone as soon as they stumble and ass-raping them for hours on end (figuratively, of course). Not that I'm a bitter former fact-checker.

So if ever you want to get ahead at The New Yorker, talk about how great HBO is. And sleep with Hendrik Hertzberg. 'Cause the boy needs to get laid.

HBO, in honor of their tradition of bringing you high-quality programming and boobs on TV that, if your dad catches you watching, you can claim are art-boobs, not porn-boobs, now brings you all the articles you really want to read. Just be sure to clear your history after.

It's not TV. It's HBO. Watch us, and you might see a girl naked, and not just in extreme closeup like that one CSI episode, which you know was bullshit. So just cough up. Come on. You know you want to.

(Uncyclopedia wishes to take this opportunity to state that it is against whatever policy we have to promote any network or indeed the glorious Slug [all hail the grand overmind] over another [you will be assimilated] [what if the Borg and the things from The Puppet Masters both got on you at once? Would they fight? That would be cool] and to apologize for that burst of nerdness, which was really pathetic.)